Gulkand (Photo: Getty Images)
For me, food memories are a personal archive of survival, of migration, of what it meant to grow up in a world shaped by the aftershocks of Partition, where every meal held a story, every scent a memory.
My childhood was steeped in warmth — not only of familial love but of bubbling pots, sun-dried petals and spice-laden kitchens. Our home smelled of cumin and rose, ginger and gur. Days were marked by what was cooked and preserved. Food was joy, ritual and expression — a language that transcended spoken words.
We lived in a world where edible flowers and medicinal sweets were commonplace. In the years following Partition, my family brought with them seed packets and memories of flowers that were once central to their kitchens. Among them was the rose, used to make Gulkand — a sweet preserve of rose petals that carried the essence of another time. The smell of Gulkand being made — heady, slightly fermented, sticky sweet — wafted through our verandah in early March. Bees hovered, drawn to the scent, and my siblings and I took turns peeking under the muslin cloth that covered the curing bowl.
Seema Kohli
The roses themselves released a scent that was rich, intoxicating, and deeply familiar — floral with a note of green spice. It was not just a sweet; it was a multi-sensory experience.
Another staple were the Date Bombs, that made frequent appearances in the winter pantry. The sticky sweetness of dates and the crunch of nuts were accompanied by the crackling sound of ghee heating in an iron kadhai. These snacks can be seen as vernacular responses to nutritional needs, offering insight into non-institutionalised dietary science.
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